


when we two parted (in silence and tears)

by Herodias



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (maybe), 1950s, 1960s, Angst, Depressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Holy Water, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Poetry, Polari, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts, Victorian, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodias/pseuds/Herodias
Summary: "With a snap of fingers, he changed into his night clothes. He didn’t need holy water anymore, he had no angel to protect now. Certainly he didn’t wish he had some within reach, at the moment; no, he didn’t, because he didn’t need it.It’s not a suicide pill. Everything is going to be fine, yes. Everything is going to be fine.He slipped into unconsciousness, hoping for a dreamless sleep that would make him forget Aziraphale’s disappointed, mournful eyes."Four snippets between 1862 and 1967





	when we two parted (in silence and tears)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karuvapatta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/gifts).

> Karu linked the poem _When We Two Parted_ by Byron in the Ace Omens discord server, so obviously I had to write something about it.  
This fic is a standalone, but it’s set in the same universe as _We’ll Forget the Tears We Cried_  
Also, in one scene characters speak Polari, so there are linked footnotes with the translation.  
Enjoy!

_When we two parted_  
_ In silence and tears,_  
_Half broken-hearted_  
_ To sever for years,_  
_Pale grew thy cheek and cold,_  
_ Colder thy kiss;_  
_Truly that hour foretold _  
_ Sorrow to this._

_Well, that went down like a lead balloon._

It wasn’t supposed to. The original plan was flawless, a sensible plan, a perfect plan, an incredible plot-twist to turn the tables on whoever dared to cross the line, forcing him to act in self defence by doing something very dramatic, very poignant and, possibly, very stupid. It was a simple plan, and it fell apart on step one.

Maybe he hadn’t thought this through - at least, not enough, apparently. He should’ve known that asking the angel to provide him with holy water was a bad idea. It was the sort of request open to various interpretations; as much as he wanted to be mad at him, he could see and understand Aziraphale’s reasoning.

Nobody’d expect a demon to completely destroy another demon via holy water. That would be messed up. That would be disturbing. That would be evil in a twisted, human way. Nobody’d expect someone like Crowley to lower himself to such a barbaric act. A final toast, on the other hand… That was believable. It even made some sort of sense.

He wasn’t planning to use it on himself, nor on anybody else, not any time soon, preferably not ever, as long as it could’ve been avoided. He just needed insurance - one may never know what tomorrow might bring. And if having lying around in his apartment a ticking bomb ready to go off at any moment was the price to pay for the promise of future safety, so be it. It didn’t mean anything, it was just… precaution, that’s all. Why couldn’t the angel see? Why couldn’t he trust him?

_Because you’re not trustworthy, it’s part of your job description. It’d be a funny old world if people went around trusting demons._

But he’d been sincere. Hadn’t he? He had never lied to Aziraphale, not once in almost six thousands years, and there was no need nor will to start now. He absent-mindedly scratched his arm. Well, almost never. Not about important stuff. Not about stuff that truly mattered. He frowned and kept scratching. The list of white-lies and half-truths kept growing.

Alright, so he hadn’t been a hundred percent sincere about a couple of things, such as his feelings, or the reason behind his decades-long naps, or why he hadn’t worn anything but long sleeves for centuries. Not a big deal. Definitely not enough to bring suspicions on his sudden interest in holy water, right?

It wasn’t a suicide pill, it wasn’t. Or so he kept reminding himself, like a mantra. It wasn’t. _It’s not_.

Besides, if - hypothetically speaking - it was, he wouldn’t have told Aziraphale so lightly. Why would he tell him such a thing? Why would he let him know that he was, in fact, attempting to commit suicide? Which he was not, obviously. The angel was so naive, he though, a fond smile wrinkling on his lips. As if he needed someone to provide him with holy water. As if he couldn’t just walk into a church and take it himself - what do a few more minutes of pain matter when you’re about to grasp eternal relief? As if he couldn’t provoke the wrong angel, tease them enough to end up smitten. As if he’d ever let his angel take the burden of his permanent death.

It wasn’t a suicide pill. It wasn’t. 

And yet…

Usually, it was Aziraphale the one who showed concern about those in charge Down There. What if they found out about the Arrangement? What sort of punishment would’ve been inflicted on Crowley, what kind of eternal torture? But every time he voiced his doubts, Crowley would usually dismiss it, _Nobody ever has to know, angel, now, let's go out for lunch, shall we?_ Clearly, he wasn’t afraid of Hell. Clearly, he didn’t really care about demons coming after him. They were just demons, after all, he could deal with them, he felt relatively safe.

The truth was… truth was…

_Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternising?_

What if somebody came not after him, but after Aziraphale? That, he couldn’t stand. He was ready to protect him tooth and nail, with hellfire and holy water. No-one, not in Heaven nor Hell, could’ve stopped his wrath if anyone dared to touch a hair on his angel’s head.

And yet…

He let his mind linger on the memory of Aziraphale leaving. He knew it was probably for the best, though. Now he didn’t need holy water to spray demons who came too close, now he didn’t need to protect anyone anymore. It was the end. Game over. He knew it, but still his heart ached, as he remembered that last encounter, the way his pleading voice had turned harsh upon mentioning the impending danger, the way his watery eyes had hardened, scolding him.

Of course he didn’t mean it. Of course Aziraphale still cared about him, far more than he was ready to admit, even to himself - and the feeling was mutual, obviously. Still, it hurt to let him go, to see him turn his back at him and indignantly walk away, without looking back. What if he was fed up of his whims and schemes? What if he’d had enough of standing by, watching Crowley playing with fire - or rather, water - until it was too much, until he destroyed himself? Wasn’t it easier to cut bridges now, instead of having to deal with guilt and grief, someday, possibly soon?

With a snap of fingers, he changed into his night clothes. He didn’t need holy water anymore, he had no angel to protect now. Certainly he didn’t wish he had some within reach, at the moment; no, he didn’t, because he didn’t need it.

_It’s not a suicide pill. Everything is going to be fine, yes. Everything is going to be fine_.

He slipped into unconsciousness, hoping for a dreamless sleep that would make him forget Aziraphale’s disappointed, mournful eyes.

_The dew of the morning _  
_ Sunk chill on my brow-- _  
_It felt like the warning_  
_ Of what I feel now._  
_Thy vows are all broken,_  
_ And light is thy fame;_  
_I hear thy name spoken,_  
_ And share in its shame._

He had to move. He knew he had to move, he couldn’t just sit there, waiting for the buzz around him to fade. It wouldn’t fade. It couldn’t.

He knew he had to move. Soon the bombing would start again and, if he wanted to survive, he had to get away from his post as soon as possible. He vaguely remembered having a job to do, something about talking to people, tempting them to… to do… to do what? He couldn’t concentrate, not with all the noise surrounding him. In the black of night, everything was eerily quiet and still, like time itself had stopped, and yet it was all too much. Explosions blasted in his mind, leaving traces of muffled screams and scraps of metal raining down on the mud. His ears were tuned to a constant static of fading bombs and despair, even when nothing but silence was there.

He had to move. It wasn’t really necessary, truth be told, since everybody else was sound asleep. He didn’t have to move, he had to rest, while he had the opportunity. But he had convinced himself that if he couldn’t manage to get up now, he most definitely wouldn’t have been able to do so in the morning.

He kept staring at the clear sky above him, dread filling his heart. _Please, God, don’t let me die. Please_. His eyes filled with tears, as he longed for the stars, for home. But not just yet, no, not just yet. He wasn’t ready to die. Somehow, he had forgotten he was a demon; death couldn’t touch him, not on this battlefield, and discorporation was nothing but a minor inconvenience. He had witnessed far too many horrors to remember that this, this world of pain, and destruction, and angry and desperate mortals, was his job, his responsibility, his realm.

The stars. Once, a long time ago, a lifetime ago, looking at them used to make him feel something. Sometimes it was longing, for all the things he had lost in exchange for dangerous, unanswered questions; he was made to explore the universe and help forge it, and was now stranded on Earth, trapped. Sometimes he felt suffocated, like the sky was a dome designed to keep him imprisoned on this silly little rock. Sometimes he felt anger, hatred towards the almighty, all-loving Being that deemed him unworthy and removed him from his home amongst the stars. Now, he felt nothing but a numb pain in his chest, no memory of having given birth to nebulae and supernovae, no memory of having spent six thousand years among humans, no memory of any emotion whatsoever. There was nothing but emptiness, a deep void filled with static, no transmissions, no signal.

He didn’t want to die. His life already felt like death.

A soldier sat by his side. He barely registered his presence.

«Trouble sleeping, uh?»

He barely registered his voice.

«Yeah, me too. At least there’s two of us, right? Keep each other company. You from London?»

Crowley wasn’t sure he wanted to engage conversation. What was the point of maintaining some kind of relationship with anyone in the trenches? This guy could’ve ended up dead within the next twenty-four hours, or the end of the week, or the month. Most certainly, within the end of the year. It wasn’t worth talking to him, risking to get him under his skin, not when his already brief life was condemned to be even shorter. Besides, even in the case he wanted to say something, he couldn’t - his lips refused to part.

The soldier didn’t know this, of course he didn’t, and if he noticed the complete lack of interest, he didn’t care, apparently. He turned over a bit of mud with the tip of his shoe, nervously.

«Sorry to bother you. It’s just… For some reason you look familiar. Took me a while to figure it out. You see, there’s this friend of mine, back in London, owns a bookshop. He always talks about his husband, how much he loves him and misses him. Says he would’ve married him, if it wasn’t forbidden. He talks about him like he’s dead, but… You look like his description, red hair, weird eyes and all. So I was wondering. Because, if it’s really you, you should ditch the war and go back to sweet ol’ Mr. Fell right now.»

The mention of that name moved something inside of Crowley. Without realising it, tears slowly formed in the corner of his eyes and wet his cheeks. How could he have forgotten about Mr. Fell? He’d been so caught up in the bloodshed that he had forgotten about his angel, who was waiting for him in London, in his bookshop. His darling angel, who wanted him to finally come home. But no, that wasn’t true. His story wasn’t the same as that of any other soldier. He didn’t have a family, or a spouse, or even friends, who prayed he would come back safe and sound, who prayed God to protect him. He didn’t have a home. He had no-one.

He remembered Aziraphale walking away. His angel didn’t care about him, not anymore, not since he’d fuck everything up.

_Why are you even here, Crowley? What the Heaven are you doing on the Western front?_

He was sleeping. He’d slept for fifty-three years.

_And then what?_

And then the war came and engulfed him. And then he left for the trenches to seek his own destruction, hoping that physical pain would distract him from his tormented heart. He left, seeking death, and instead found a will to live he hadn’t been sure he could’ve ever found.

He had to move. Of course he didn’t have to, not really. He could’ve just stayed there, lying still, waiting for a bomb to drop on him and discorporate him. Waiting for someone to think he was dead, maybe trick a priest into blessing him with the extreme unction.

But he had to. He had to keep it together, and survive, and go back to London, and beg for forgiveness. He had to fight, fight for his angel, who followed him even on the battlefield, even in No Man’s Land, even if he didn’t know it, even in the words of some stranger with good intentions.

He had to move. He kept still. He would’ve fought in the morning; for now, it was just him, the stars and his grieving heart.

_I can’t keep doing this, angel._

_They name thee before me, _  
_ A knell to mine ear;_  
_A shudder comes o'er me--_  
_ Why wert thou so dear?_  
_They know not I knew thee, _  
_ Who knew thee too well--_  
_Long, long shall I rue thee,_  
_ Too deeply to tell._

There was music in the background, but it could barely be heard, drowned by the sound of poured drinks, clinking glasses, tapping shoes, chatter, laughter. He didn’t mind it, not much. It was better than the alternative, and that had to be good enough. Loud noises startled him, reminded him of bombs, and screams, battlefields and ruins. Two very different wars overlapped in his mind, sometimes putting the present in the background. But not tonight. Tonight, he could focus on the sound of people enjoying themselves, living their silly little lives to the fullest. _Have fun now while you can_.

He waved at the barman, asking for a refill. To him, pubs meant sensory overload, but he had learnt how to deal with it, somehow. Not like he had any other option, really. Being an immortal demon, he had no choice but to adapt, even if the world - this brand, new world - was moving fast, faster than ever, leaving him unable to catch up with the progress. At least, he thought, chugging his drink, alcohol was still there and wasn’t going to disappear any time soon. And anyway, a random pub was better than his flat, too big and too empty for one person. Silence stirred up memories of an eerily quiet London after the latest blitz, of field hospitals at night, when it was impossible to tell if the soldier in the next bed was just sleeping or already dead. Silence allowed him to hear his own thought. He didn’t want to hear any of that crap. He just wanted to drink himself into oblivion.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop - he couldn’t care less about frivolous gossip and humans trying to hit on one another. But the words of the group of people seated next to him by the bar reached him through the stupor.

«So, I was at Felly’s-»

«Who?»

«Ya know who. The omi with the bookshop.»[1]

«Oh, yeah. A dolly dish, that one.»[2]

«Wait, you mean Ezra?»

«Is that his name?»

«Who cares, he’s bona ol’ Felly.»[3]

«The things I’d do to her… Such a to be had...»[4]

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, he didn’t care about humans. But it wasn’t about humans anymore - it was about Aziraphale.

What was happening to the angel was a mystery Crowley didn’t have the strength to solve, not when he was too caught up in his own grief. But something was wrong for sure.

During the Second World War, they had worked together, saving as many people as possible, hiding them in the Underground and making sure the ceilings didn’t collapse on them, while they waited for the bombs to stop falling. It was a tiring job, and the general mood was foul; they performed miracles side by side, but rarely talked to one another.

And after the war… After the war, Aziraphale disappeared. The opening hours of the bookshop had always been erratic, but these days even more so; the shop would stay closed for months in a row, and its owner nowhere to be found. It was weird. It wasn’t like him.

Crowley had found out that Aziraphale - or, apparently, bona ol’ Felly - would rather hang out at the most disreputable pubs in town, often accompanied by dubious people. No, it definitely wasn’t like him. Maybe the angel was just being naive as usual, maybe he was trying to help those people with his angelic influences, but something told him it wasn’t the case. It was deliberate. It was desperate. It was self-destructing. But, as much as he wanted to talk to him, it would’ve been quite hypocritical of him to confront him on the matter. So, he was keeping his distance, hoping for the best. The cocktail in his glass suggested him the best would never come. They both were far too broken for hope.

Aziraphale wasn’t there, but those people were, making innuendos about him, and that made Crowley mad. More than that, it made him utterly pissed off. The alcohol certainly wasn’t helping.

He grabbed the nearest man’s arm and dug his nails into his jacket. «You stop talkin’ ‘bout Aziraphale right now, or else-»

The man’s reaction was not the one he expected. The demon was ready to pick a fight; instead, he found a pair of predatory eyes, looking at him up and down.

«Only if you lemme buy you a bevvy, dolly.»[5]

Crowley was confused and was starting to feel uncomfortable. He stared at him, unable to utter a single word, too shocked and too drunk to do anything.

«Oi, dolly! Ya ain’t a naff, are ya? Or a lilly?»[6]

«Do I look like a bloody lilly?» he spat, affronted. He stepped back and snapped his fingers to sober up, just a little bit, just enough to be aware of the situation, in case things got out of hand.

«Hey, isn’t he Felly’s bitch? Ya know, the one with the posh car,» said another man.

«Aye, he is! Vardered him last week outside the bookshop. Felly won’t let him in..»[7]

«Bet he’s just a dilly boy looking for dinari, and Felly got bored of him. Varda his riah!»[8]

«His riah? Varda his dish! Oi, bitaine, wanna be my trade tonight?»[9]

Greedy fingers gently curled a lock of his hair. It was nauseating. And yet, he wasn’t as worried as he should’ve been; he didn’t care about being mistaken for a prostitute, he didn’t care about the perception humans might have had of him. What he truly hated was that they were telling the truth about Aziraphale. No matter how hard he tried to reach out to him, the angel was determined not to let him in. It hurt. It hurt to know that his angel didn’t want him around - why would he? They were hereditary enemies, after all. It hurt to think about him surrounded by such disgusting men, and to know there was nothing he could do to keep him safe. And it hurt, oh, it hurt so much to hear his name, to be reminded of how fond he still was of him, how much he still loved him, despite everything.

He fought the revulsion, he leaned in and whispered in the man’s ear: «You leave me alone. You leave Aziraphale alone. Or else... You wouldn’t enjoy Hell, dolly. Trust me, I’ve been there.»

He put a spark of hellfire on his shirt and the group went hysterical. It wasn’t a big deal, really - hellfire wasn’t meant to hurt humans no more than holy water - it was only going to sting a bit for a couple of days. Of course they didn’t know that and the panic in their eyes pleased Crowley.

He parted the crowd and left the pub. The next morning, nobody would remember him, or bona ol’ Felly.

_In secret we met--_  
_ In silence I grieve,_  
_That thy heart could forget,_  
_ Thy spirit deceive._  
_If I should meet thee_  
_ After long years,_  
_How should I greet thee?--_  
_With silence and tears._  


_Don’t go unscrewing the cap._

_Do I look like a bloody idiot, angel?_ Well, yes, probably. After all, he had planned to do something very dramatic, very poignant and very stupid; he had planned to a hundred and five years earlier, and he still defended that brilliant - or so he had deemed it - scheme.

He had no reason to unscrew the cap, not now, anyway. Possibly.

It was secured in a vault, behind the Mona Lisa preparatory drawing, and it was to remain there until danger knocked on his door. Except… except he kept staring at that enigmatic smile, wondering if the danger wasn’t already inside his flat, or inside his mind. The tartan flask had been in his possession for twenty-four hours, and it was already driving him insane.

The caper was a ruse, obviously. Nothing stopped him from entering a church to steal a cup of holy water on his own - he had learnt that consecrated ground wounds burn for a couple of days, and then leave sore feet for a couple of months, nothing irremediable or permanent. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the angel had to know.

He couldn’t explain it, nor fully understand it. Maybe, if it wasn’t a secret, if somebody else, somebody important, knew, then it would’ve been obvious that the reason why he needed holy water was to destroy enemies.

It wasn’t a suicide pill.

What he didn’t expect was Aziraphale miracling himself inside the Bentley so soon.

The memory of the angel’s eyes was haunting him, more than the last time they had discussed the topic. It was distressing, and it didn’t seem rational. He had finally obtained what he wanted, he should’ve been satisfied. Then why was he so wistful?

_I can’t have you risking your life_.

Because he didn’t believe those words. Because he couldn’t believe Aziraphale didn’t mind his company, cared about him, even. Why would he? He was an angel, he wasn’t supposed to like demons. Hereditary enemies, or so all that propaganda shit Crowley didn’t listen to says.

_I can’t have you risking your life._

_Can’t you, angel? Wouldn’t your job be easier without me spreading foment all over the country?_

Of course not. Of course Aziraphale would’ve missed him terribly, if he decided to disappear. Not to mention how guilty he would’ve felt, having been the one who provided him with the means of his destruction.

No. He could never do this to his angel. To make him suffer even from beyond the grave was too heinous.

He wanted to feel angry, truth be told. Why couldn’t he be left alone? Why wasn’t he free to do whatever he wanted? Why was he bound to please everybody else, whether it was Hell’s bureaucracy or a certain angel’s whims? Yes, maybe, deep down, on some level, it was a suicide pill. Maybe he’d had enough of tempting humans or bowing to Lords and Dukes or enduring pain, destruction, war, misery, heartbreak. Maybe he’d had enough of everything. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t worth it.

But how could he bring himself to unscrew the cap of that blessed tartan flask? The angel had promised - _promised_ \- a brighter future. A future made of picnics, and dinners at the Ritz, and perhaps even more than he dared to hope for. A future so uncertain, but unmistakably there, somewhere, at the end of the road. It wasn’t much, but he could see daylight, for the first time in centuries.

But how long, how long would it take to get there?

_You go too fast for me, Crowley_.

He couldn’t imagine slowing down - it would’ve meant stopping time altogether. What he actually could do, he thought, as he got up from his chair, was to stop his mind from running in circles, completely out of control.

He avoided Mona Lisa’s smile as he disappeared into the bedroom. _Not today_.

He slipped into unconsciousness. His tormented, dreamless sleep only lasted two weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> 1omi = man[return to text]  
2dolly dish = attractive man[return to text]  
3bona = good[return to text]  
4to be had = prospective sexual conquest[return to text]  
5bevvy = drink; dolly = pretty[return to text]  
6naff = heterosexual; lilly = policeman[return to text]  
7varda = to see[return to text]  
8dilly boy = prostitute; dinari = money; riah = hair[return to text]  
9dish = buttocks; bitaine = whore; trade = sex-partner[return to text]


End file.
